


Unable to Develop: Five Months Later

by BootlegGirl1



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Post-Canon, Sequel, Sexual Violence, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootlegGirl1/pseuds/BootlegGirl1
Summary: Five months after Chloe Price's death in the girl's bathroom of Blackwell Academy exposed a killer in the midst of the prestigious magnet school, students, teachers, and community are on edge. Max Caulfield thought her unbearable choice closed off her past - and her power to return there - as well as the consequences, but when unexpected earthquakes begin to afflict Arcadia Bay, Max suspects she may have done even more lasting damage. Victoria Chase meets a mysterious stranger who awakens strange new abilities, and Warren Graham struggles to reach Max - who he once believed to be his best friend. When a group of people connected to Rachel Amber - as well as Max and Warren - are summoned to a mysterious meeting, a series of fateful events begins the countdown to the ultimate fate of Arcadia Bay.(NOTE: Fan "season 2" continuing Arcadia Bay's story, told through diaries of multiple characters. Content warnings largely refer to references to the Dark Room story and to Nathan's experiences.)WIP





	1. PROLOGUE: Note Dated Friday, March 14, 2014 by Max Caulfield

To Whom It May Concern:

Record scratch. Freeze frame. If you know what I think you do, you're probably not wondering how I am able to literally record scratch, freeze frame things. You're probably wondering, however, how I ended up in this specific, bloody, horrible situation right in front of you. More than that, you're probably wondering how I could *possibly* trust you. How I could justify what I did to get this to you. If you read what's inside, you'll know. 

The old me would suggest some indie rock ballads for you to listen to while you read all of this. I did include Victoria's MP3 player, although honestly I can't recommend her taste at all. Maybe you'll like it better. I'm rambling, and once again, I'm out of time, for real.

From what I know about you, life's been pretty rough for you, and it wasn't _all_ your fault. There are people a lot worse than you in this story, just like there's people better than either of us. But they're all gone now. It's just you and the information I'm leaving you. We all make choices in life. Sometimes we don't text a friend for years when they needed it. Sometimes, we steal a thousand dollars meant to address sorely needed disability concerns at a school that is probably going to get sued into oblivion over ADA compliance if it doesn't get sued into oblivion first because of all the murder and natural disasters. And, speaking of that... sometimes, we kill. 

I made an _impossible_ choice five months and seven days ago. I made it because I didn't have a better one, because the world handed me two horrors and I chose the one that, for that single moment, seemed less horrible. The only reason I think it might have been the right one now is because as a result, I've learned what's in these documents. I've learned that I didn't make the first choice in that chain of choices. On some level, I always understood this, but now I know something I can do about it.

You made a choice. If I'm right - and you'll know if I am - then you can change that choice. And you may not deserve this, but changing that choice should be _far_ easier than changing mine was.

What comes next, though? I'm not sure.

Sincerely,  
Max Caulfield

[package contains several journals/diaries, assorted papers, an MP3 player that was expensive in 2009, a revolver, and a single developed photograph]


	2. [EPISODE 1] Max Caulfield's Diary, dated Friday, March 7, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max writes to Chloe to try to apologize, but makes a lot of changes - to the text, not to time. She receives a mysterious series of communications, and Arcadia Bay is struck by an earthquake. That evening, she and Warren go to a mysterious rendezvous at the Old Mill - and Max tries to decide if she can return to photography.

Dear ~~diary~~ ~~bullshit piece of paper~~ Chloe,

Today was ~~relaxing~~ ~~shit~~ _~~shit like it always is~~_ five months since it happened. Also, the first time I've managed to force myself to write in this diary at all, because I'm a ~~loser who can't move on from trauma like the fucking grief counselor said~~ ~~_fucking piece of shit who let you die_~~.

Let's try again. Chloe, this is for you. I'm sorry. ~~not that you care, you're dead. must be nice.~~ I'd like to say it's been nice, that it's been good for me, but it hasn't. You'd probably punch me for saying this, but it feels like my life ended in that bathroom too. Every night, I try not to think about using that photo. I try to think I ripped it up. ~~Sometimes I wish I could convince myself none of it was real, but I remember what you said to me, and I _won't_ do that.~~ But then I come crashing back to reality. And then, I - how would Victoria put it - pop a Xanny? You'd be disappointed in me, it's not even illegal - I medicate my anxiety away with a pill. I know, I know, it'd be cooler if I smoked. There's a measure in the legislature to make pot legal, but you have to be 21. Anyway, it wouldn't kick in until next year, and well... I'm not on great terms with Frank. So, alprazolam it is for me.

I'm applying to college. My mom and dad really want me to come back home to Seattle, because of ~~the whole thing where you got your guts blown out on the bathroom wall and I totally knew about it but they don't know I knew and no one knows because no one would believe me because I'm way crazier than they think I am and by the way I can't rewind anymore so did any of it even happen~~ what happened. University of Washington is good, but I've also got applications in at Wellesley and Evergreen. I know I'm in at U of W, but I'm waiting on the others. I don't know where I want to go. I don't even know _if_ I want to go.

~~_"Without you, the poetry within me is dead"_ wow Max that's pretentious even for you, go fuck your XXXXX~~ yeah I don't write that word anymore

By the way, I haven't used my rewind. I _can't_ use my rewind, I don't know why. I did try, a couple of times. One time I went into the bathroom, after they took the crime scene tape, and I looked at that stupid fucking graffiti on the mirrors and I reached my hand out and I just... screamed and tried to... _pull_... like I used to, when I went backwards... and nothing happened. Another time it was so stupid, it was just a reflex. I dropped my tray in the cafeteria, a bowl shattered and my clothes got soaked. Some part of me was willing to give it all up, to _literally_ trigger another apocalypse, just to keep from dropping my tray. Sometimes I wonder whether the hurricane even would have been the hurricane if I hadn't been... well... me, if I wasn't the sort of person would would tear apart the laws of reality not just to make things work out for me, but just to make them a bit easier. Hell, I was spying on people's diaries and hacking their computers with the rewind before we even started investigated anything. Before I needed to.

But, it doesn't matter. I can't. It's gone. I guess that was the point.

So. Fun. There's that! We have science classes at Blackwell, like, a lot of them, they hired a new science teacher, Mr. Anderson ~~with the big surplus in the school budget labeled "photography", btw have I mentioned I don't take photos anymore cuz I didn't hey in this universe you don't even know why did you know my favorite teacher is a serial killer and also you would have thought he was hot if you'd met him which I never ever think about even though I'm thinking about it right now~~ and he seems cool. This semester I have first period physics with Mrs. Grant, second period free, third period English with Mr. Keaton, and fourth period computer science with Mrs. Jiang. I can't really tell you much about them, because to be honest I haven't been paying attention. I would say it's senioritis, but let's be honest it's the ~~guilt and constant memories of how I fucking killed failed you~~ post traumatic stress disorder. Which is official, by the way! It's on my charts. ~~back to the xanax for a moment the thing i hate most is how for like half an hour if i take two i almost feel nothing when i think about what i did~~

So today started off pretty normal, but that's only because I didn't check my mail when I should have. Things started to get odd when I was sitting in English, with Mr. Keaton. Keaton was talking about books getting made into adaptations - I think. Honestly, I can barely bring myself to care these days about class, and... well, honestly, that's not too different from before. It's just worse. Anyway, Keaton was rambling like he always does about Shakespeare, and Daniel DaCosta, who _never_ talks in class, raised his hand to ask about graphic novels and whether they counted as literature and could be adapted into movies and what Keaton thought about that. He kind of rambled too.  I hate it when teachers ramble, I keep getting these flashes almost like the rewind, except the only rewinding is that they turn into Jefferson for a moment. Especially in that room. Anyway, Mr. Keaton responded and said that graphic novels, which are also called comics - he seemed to think none of us were big enough geeks to know that - could be adapted into film, as we saw with what "us kids" called "shared cinematic universes." He clearly didn't approve very much, and Daniel pressed him on whether graphic novels could be art. He named two examples he could think of that were, _Blue is the Warmest Color_ which he didn't really talk about and seemed to immediately regret bringing up  I looked it up, it has sex and teachers at Blackwell don't talk about sex anymore because of the whole sex dungeon thing, and _Watchmen_ , which I thought was cool to bring up because I'd actually seen it. 

But then he started going off about how, unlike when he directs a Shakespeare play and somehow Shakespeare's exact intent leaps "off the page and onto the screen," _Watchmen_ missed Alan Moore's point in the graphic novel, because in the film, when Ozymandias decides to destroy New York City because he thinks it'll prevent a nuclear war that will kill literally everyone, the movie shows it working, shows that nuclear war isn't going to happen, but in the comic, it's ambiguous. He started talking about how the message of the comic was that not only could you not justify sacrificing people's lives for the greater good, but if you did, you couldn't keep it secret, you couldn't keep things quiet, and that would mean you didn't even accomplish what you set out to accomplish. In _Watchmen_ the character Rohrschach gets killed to cover the whole thing up, but he sends his journal to a crank newspaper, and I guess the implication in the comic is that even though Rohrschach is seen as crazy and so is the paper, the journal's publication is enough information to make Ozymandias's whole plan fall apart. Which is why he's called Ozymandias - because all his works fall apart, like the statue guy or the meth guy. 

Yeah. So that wasn't a fun conversation for me. It wasn't _just_ Mr. Keaton telling me that what I did, ~~killing you~~ letting you die, couldn't possibly be moral, couldn't possibly be _right_ even though we agreed it was the best option. It was... Rohrschach's diary. There _is_ a Rohrschach's diary, that could bring this whole thing down. My power was changing time, changing the world, and somehow, allowing that to happen was bringing the storm. I don't know if you noticed, Chloe, but there were _literal_ butterflies flapping their _literal_ wings. 

I saw a butterfly when we buried you. I told myself something stupid, that it was you coming to say you were somewhere better now. I guess some stupid part of me must still believe that, because I'm writing this to you. But what if that butterfly was there because I still flapped my wings once, even in ~~this stupid fucking world where I let you die~~ the timeline where I gave up my powers. And it happened right that, in that room where Mr. Keaton was rambling about comic books. I don't sit in that chair anymore, but I could see it - Brooke was sitting there. I was sitting right where Brooke was, and I pulled my phone out, and I texted David what I knew about Jefferson. I got there using a photo I tricked Jefferson into giving me, the selfie I took in class and he called me out for. (He had to... what's it called... "neg"... me about it. _Again_. Most petulant serial killer ever.  Warren once told me Jefferson didn't count as a serial killer technically, because Nathan killed two people and he just sort of caused it, and you have to kill three people with a certain time gap, and then the way I was looking at him seemed to convey that I was _not fucking up_ for splitting hairs like that. I say fuck a lot more than I used to btw Chloe, you'd be proud of me.

Anyway, that was the earliest time I went back to, except for the selfie with you when we were kids, and I reversed that change. The photo of the first butterfly you gave me - that was _after_ the selfie in Jefferson's class. After I sent the text. _And there was a butterfly there_. Rohrschach's diary, the information that escaped. Proof that I knew, that I had the power to save you, and that I didn't.

I didn't fully put it all together until I went back to my room, took a Xanax to relax a little - and it was right then, when that little, merciful relaxation was kicking in, that I realized this was why David seemed to hate me more than ever.

Yeah, I guess I should have told you how your parents are doing, but I'd imagine you wouldn't want to know. Most parents of a murdered kid divorce, I saw that on TV once, and your (step-)family is not on track to beat that average. I've only been to your house once, because Joyce needed help cleaning out your room. That was _not_ fun. I saved the comics we drew when we were little, and some of the posters too. I think there had to have been two really, really bad parts of that really, really bad experience. The first was when I saw a piece of graffiti you wrote just above your bed, just above where we first kissed: 

` I'd rather have a lifetime of regrets than no life at all.`

Welp, I sure took that away from you. 

The second worst thing was when David showed up, which, I know, old times sake. But what made this worse was he didn't say anything cruel. At first, he just sort of stared at me. At the time, I didn't realize why, but now I totally do. He was polite throughout the entire encounter, which, now that I know the full situation, seems kind of odd actually. Even though I sent that text message anonymously, **David somehow knew it was me**. I don't know if it was because he already had some kind of surveillance in Jefferson's classroom - he sure did convince Wells to let him close that barn door after the horse ~~had been shot in the gut by an undermedicated jock shitfuck because I let him~~ had left the ~~barn~~ horse containing place - or if he just _knew_ , but... he knew. He knew that I knew Jefferson was a threat, and the fact that you died meant that he knew I was responsible. I'm sure of it now.

I saw Joyce a few more times at the Blue Whale. She's even been joking about offering me a job. Some part of me wants to ask her if she's serious, if I can take her up on that and stay here instead of going to college in Seattle or at Evergreen. I don't even know why I want to stay somewhere with all these painful memories, or why I'd consider working in a building which I've seen explode because of a literal whale with half the people I know inside of it (yeah, that's one of my weirder PTSD flashbacks). She's... doing as well as you could expect, which I mean, not well. But she'd be better if David hadn't, according to her, gone farther down the rabbit hole of surveilling everything, recording everything... he's got a camera in every room of your house. Yes, including yours. And he's got _multiple_ cameras everywhere, inside and outside Blackwell. You getting shot was a kind of 9/11 to this whole place, and sometimes I feel like David's going to haul me off to Gitmo.

But he knows. The point is that he knows. I assumed I lost my powers because I ended the loop I was stuck in, made it so nothing really changed. But because I sent that text, that's not true. So that leaves me with two questions:

1) Why did I lose my powers?

2) Is this all going to come back - the hurricane, the dead whales, the birds, all of it? Did you die for nothing?

In the original "experiment" in chaos theory that led to people talking about the Butterfly Effect, the meteorologist Edward Lorenz was running some formulas to calculate the path of a hurricane. He changed some tiny number, in a rounding error, and I mean _really_ tiny, and the hurricane's path changed completely. That's why he called it the Butterfly Effect - because one tiny thing, including _literally_ a butterfly, could change everything. I mean, assuming meteorology isn't bullshit.

Is there still a hurricane? As I was lying on my bed, wondering this, I got a text, and this is where _I_ started to go down the rabbit hole. Anonymous sender. _Fuck_. Could have been a stalker, someone who was fascinated with "the Blackwell murders" and knew I was connected - although honestly Victoria has gotten the worst of that. Could have been spam, too. It was neither. IT read:

` Do not go to meeting tonight. Mortal danger. Do not allow Warren to go to meeting either.`

My blood was immediately struck cold because that was exactly the kind of text I had sent David. I also had no idea what it meant. I had no intention of a meeting tonight. I was already skipping fourth period - they let me get away with that now, because poor girl with PTSD, blah blah. I had no intention of going anywhere tonight. I was going to just sit in my room. _What did Warren have to do with this?_ I texted him.

` Hey dude, did you get any weird texts or anything?`

He responded almost immediately, like the creepy-ass nerd he is.

`Absolutely not. `

`Is someone cyberstalking you?`

`I can beat them up.`

I know he's telling the truth, even though he doesn't. I've seen it. But that wasn't what I needed right now. I replied:

`Wouldn't know who to beat up, regardless. No idea who the number is. Told me not to go to a meeting and not to let you go either. Specifically mentioned you.`

There was a pause. Unusual for Warren. And then:

`...shit. Max, we need to talk. Meet me in the mailroom in five?`

I felt myself shaking, and told him I'd be there. And then I realized the shaking wasn't _just_ inside me. The ground was moving. I heard a distant rumble, and I felt the building shift. My guitar fell to the floor from leaning against my bed, and a small poster - an outdated class schedule - fell from a thumbtack. And then it stopped.

Earthquakes are normal out here. We're near so many big faults, Mrs. Grant explained it in class late last semester. _But you know what the "right" kind of earthquake causes,_ that asshole little voice inside me said. _Hurricanes._

Why now? Even if the change I made had caused a butterfly effect, why would it suddenly start showing now, right when I figured it out? I didn't have time to answer that right now. I wasn't messing with time, so I wasn't making it worse, I told myself. I got out of bed and went down to the mailroom.

Warren was there, holding something behind his back. I felt extreme nerves - I hadn't felt like this since five months ago. He told me I should check my mail, and then he'd show me what he was hiding. Again, creepy-ass nerd, and I told him that. But I opened my mailbox, and two things were there that increased my nerves. A letter from Evergreen - I couldn't tell if it was fat enough for an acceptance or thin enough for a rejection - and, more importantly by far to me in that moment, a blue stationary envelope. I took both items out. The blue envelope was, bizarrely, addressed in _typewriter_ of all things, to "Miss Maxine Caulfield". Like, old-school, manual typewriter - you could see the indents left on the pages. I opened it up slowly, and took out something that felt like a knife to the gut.

A card with blue flowers and - a blue butterfly.

Inside, it read:

`Dear Miss Caulfield,`

`Your attendance is urgently requested at a meeting related to recent events, at the Old Mill at 10:30 P.M. tonight, March 7, 2014. `

`Sincerely,  
An Interested Party`

`P.S. How's the weather been for you lately?`

_Fuck._ I showed the letter to Warren, before thinking about what it might mean for him to see the postscript. _He couldn't figure it out from just that,_ I told myself. But I also knew part of me wanted him to. He told me that his was the same, but with no postscript, and that his had already been opened, and crudely taped back shut. He told me he was pretty sure what was inside was for me, not for him, and he didn't know why it was sent to him instead. And then he handed me the thing that had been slipped in.

Polaroid film. The kind my camera, which I only got back in January after the cops finished indexing it and making sure it wouldn't be needed as evidence in Mr. Jefferson's trial, used. Photography was a hobby I'd given up, and that camera - no offense to your dad, Chloe, I'm sorry - was _certainly_ something I never intended to use again. But I hadn't thrown it away. So, all I said out loud to Warren was, "weird."

We agreed we'd take Warren's car to the Old Mill - I'd never been there, but he said he knew how to get there. Yeah, the text said not to go, but who trusts an anonymous text from some creeper? ~~David, which is the only reason I ever survived the time loop.~~

As we were driving out there that evening, Warren noticed I was nervous. He didn't try to put his arm around me - he was way less creepy than usual to be honest. I think he was spooked too by this whole thing. He did ask me about the letter from Evergreen in my lap, and if that's why I was nervous. We both knew it wasn't, but I told him it was and opened it. I guess I was a _little_ nervous about it. Anyway, just as we were pulling up to the Mill, I read it.

` Dear Ms. Caulfield,`

`We are happy to annnounce that you will be joining -`

Of course, I didn't need to read any further. I let myself let out one yelp of enthusiasm - just one. I'm not even sure I want to go to Evergreen. But Warren was so happy, and for a moment his grin was enough to infect me, even though I felt like something else, dark, from the past was infecting _me_. And then, he suggested it, as we parked in an old, currently empty lot, just a bit early for the meeting. The half-moon glistened in the sky above us.

"Max college acceptance selfie?" he asked. I know, I blacked out that word earlier. But it matters, now, I guess, because of what happened next. Against all my instincts, I told him sure. Let's do it. Let's do something normal, like normal teenagers whose lives weren't ripped apart by a serial killer who seemed at least partially motivated by hating selfies. Hell, this could even be a middle finger to Jefferson, for that matter.

"Sure, if this thing's battery is still here," I said, taking the old camera from my bag. "You got that film?" He handed it to me, and I inserted it into the camera. I held it up, put my head beside his, and smiled. I snapped the photo. For just a moment, I heard the music of a party from the past in the background, and I felt like I could see you out of the corner of my eye, asking me to hurry up. And then I was back in reality, such as it is.

We approached the Old Mill, which wasn't as creepy as it sounds. Warren told me as we approached that someone had been murdered there, and that's why it wasn't used for illegal concerts anymore. I hadn't know about the murder or about the illegal concerts, and neither thing made me more comfortable. No one was there yet, and I couldn't resist poking my head inside - it was all filled with sawblades and decrepit industrial equipment, but hey, you know that, because one of the blades had textbook cynical Chloe graffiti on it. I wonder what you did here.

A car approached. We went outside. It was an older model economy car, so I was very surprised when Frank Bowers stepped out of it. We hadn't seen each other since your funeral, of course. We made eye contact, and after a pause, he simply said, "Retired. Don't need a whole RV to work at PetSmart." I had to stifle a giggle - Frank Bowers, retiring from his life of crime to work at Petsmart? I felt a further increased nervousness, on that note, when I noticed he hadn't brought Pompadou. _He knows this isn't safe._

We made small talk - is that what you call it when you discuss how weird it is that you got anonymous letters from nobody? I told him about the text and made sure to confirm it wasn't him who sent it, and, for whatever reason, I trusted him. I noticed a haunted look in his eye when he looked at the Old Mill itself, and I wondered why. He mostly tried not to look at it.

Another car approached, a nice car. A really nice one, a recent-model Cadillac. A man and a woman got out - the woman looked was really pretty, but her face was filled with lines that reflected intense pain. The man looked, to be blunt, like a somewhat younger Martin Sheen, but he as well bore the scars of early aging. When he saw Frank, a look of anger crossed his face.

"Frank Bowers," he said. 

"Shit," Frank said. "This some kind of entrapment?"

"I haven't been with law enforcement for over a year," the man said. "Besides, I'm told you're retired." He turned to me and introduced himself, and the woman.

They were James and Rose Amber. Rachel Amber's parents. Everyone here was someone with a connection to Rachel Amber. 

Except me. I never knew her. I only knew her because of you.

Someone emerged from the wild woods near the sawmill. She was a woman even younger than Mrs. Amber, but who looked even older. If James Amber had been angry after seeing Frank, the look now on his face was one of pure hatred.

"Sarah," he said. "You sent the invitations." She nodded. James turned to me and made an obligatory, ritualistic introduction gesture. "Max, Warren, Frank, this is the... biological father of my late dau-"

"I know who she is," Frank said, his own teeth clenched. "I've met her here before."

"I'd imagine you have," James said. I didn't understand what was going on between them, but I didn't have time to wonder. This Sarah woman looked around at each of us.

"Max Caulfield?" she asked, looking at me. I confirmed. She turned to Warren and asked him for his name as well, and he confirmed. And it was in that moment that everything... changed.

She pulled a pistol from behind her back. I hadn't seen a gun out of a holster since... it happened. I saw you die again in front of me.

And then I saw Warren actually die in front of me. Sarah placed the pistol to his head, and paused again - I realize now that she was lining up her shot. When she pulled the trigger, the back of Warren's head was only a few inches from where it should have been when everything froze.

Freeze frame. Record scratch. I bet you're wondering how I ended up rewinding time again, even though I know exactly how that ends. Warren's head recomposed itself. The gun lowered, and went behind Sarah's back, and I shouted:

"Don't do it!"

The gun stayed behind her back, and Sarah looked me deep in the eye.

"Glad to see you're back in focus, Miss Caulfield."


	3. [EPISODE 1] Victoria Chase's MP3 Journal, January 11, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Victoria meets a mysterious reporter and realizes that her former feelings about Jefferson have been revealed to the press by a treacherous friend, Victoria decides she can trust no one, and has a strange spiritual experience as she plans to investigate how she has been betrayed.

##### [RECORDING DATED JANUARY 11, 2014, 9:14 AM BY VICTORIA CHASE]

Ok, testing, is this thing working?

##### [RECORDING DATED JANUARY 11, 2014, 9:16 AM BY VICTORIA CHASE]

It's working. Cool. My mom bought me this MP3 player for my birthday back in like 2009. It was the best non-iPod on the market back then, and I think we were boycotting Apple for some reason or something. Anyway, I need to talk, I don't feel like typing, and after what's been happening lately, I don't trust any smartphone apps. 

This story starts when I got called in like everyone else who knew... him... to answer some questions. I don't know - yet - who told the trash press that this was when I was going to be interviewed, but I do know what I felt when I came out from the courthouse yesterday. There must have been twelve of them - _National Enquirer_ types but a few of the local news stations too. I knew it'd gotten around social media that I had been... a big fan of his, but they knew. They fucking knew he was going to target me.

The cops had told me there was a file for me after Kate's, in that... place. They told me they had reason to believe that he would have announced me as the winner of the Everyday Heroes competition. I told maybe two or three people in the Vortex Club... and someone told these fucking reporters.

This whole thing has been horrible, but... I admit I didn't really feel what, I guess, everyone else felt at first. I only knew the dead girls a little bit. I heard the gunshot like everyone else, and when I heard it was Nathan... I mean, obviously I was shocked, but there had always been something about him that made me feel... unsafe. But... I guess I'll say his name. Mr. Jefferson was a hero to me, and I guess the hero Mr. Jefferson in my head didn't die right away. Or... maybe I never even really saw him as a hero. Maybe he was just someone I thought I could manipulate to get ahead.

At some point I realized that not only could I not have manipulated him, but he was going to kill me. And that's when the dread kicked in. The guy's locked up and he's going down for life, he's just lucky Oregon doesn't have the death penalty. I'm glad they're not letting him throw Nathan under the bus, either - just because he didn't pull the trigger doesn't mean that Jefferson didn't make everything that happened happen.

Then I realized that the dead girl, Chloe - she saved my life. She didn't mean to, but she saved my life. I didn't end up on those horrible photographs... because of her. Realizing that made me feel guilty as well as scared.

But it wasn't until the reporter asked the first question that I realized exactly how fucked I was.

She was disheveled, I guess I'd say. She had red hair and wrinkles across her face that made her look so much older than she really was, and somehow I felt like I knew her. What I did notice was she had no press badge. It didn't matter, because of what she asked me.

"Is it true that you were close with Mark Jefferson and that you wanted to trade sexual favors for the opportunity to win his photography contest?" She said that, in front of other cameras, other microphones, and that was the moment it felt like my world ended. If I could, I'm afraid I might have reached out and fucking killed her, but of course it wouldn't have mattered, because they _all_ heard it, and they would _all_ hear whatever I did next.

And it wasn't a lie. It wasn't _untrue_. But I hadn't acted. All I'd done was say something... to Taylor and Courtney. "That is ridiculous," I said, angrily. I didn't know what to do. The old me would have leaned into this, acted for the cameras... but I just wanted to run away, get away. So I tried. But the woman followed me, and played a clip on her phone.

"I think Mark Jefferson's into me," I heard myself say. I remembered saying those words. _Those bitches recorded me!_ I heard myself continue. "My work is already absolutely the best in his class, but I think I could offer him... a little something he might be into. Give myself a bit of a push."

It was like the world around me was spinning. No, it was actually spinning, I think, in the sense that I was going to puke over every one of those reporters. But I didn't: instead, I told them exactly where they could go and what they could fuck. And then I told them that they wouldn't dare publish a thing about this recording. That it was fake, that it was a lie.

And so far, nothing has come out about it. That recording should at the _very least_ be on the True Crime Arcadia Bay Murders Reddit thread, which... I admit I check regularly. But nothing. I tried to find the red haired woman, figure out who she worked for, but I couldn't.

I don't know why none of those reporters, from the trashiest newspapers - some of them weren't even newspapers, probably don't even count as tabloids - didn't publish anything. Maybe they still will. But something about that moment... it was like I convinced them. Like I made them _change_. Whatever the case is, I know I can't trust Taylor or Courtney, and I will find out which of them recorded me. And why the fuck they were even doing that! What the fuck did they know? Why would they even think that would matter? Were they just going to embarass me? Try to get me kicked out of the Vortex Club, or get with Nathan? That would have worked out great. Fucking bitches. And I'll be recording on this until I figure out a better solution, because now I don't trust _anyone_ not to hack my phone or some shit. I think I'll talk to that one nerd kid - no, not fucking Max, Brooke I think her name is. The one with the drone. She might know how any of this is even possible.

There is something, though. Something else. Something that has me more freaked than any of this. I was outside, just before midnight, I couldn't fucking sleep. Smoking cigarettes probably doesn't help, but I did. I was over by the benches near where the groundskeeper's office is, because everyone in the Vortex Club has figured out the zone between the door to the supply room, and the bench where all the squirrels hang out, is the blindspot in that Madsen guy's cameras - so if you're out after dark, you stand the least chance of getting caught. So when you sneak out at night these days, you wear a hoodie and you hope your body shape doesn't give you away. Anyway, I was lighting my second cigarette, and then I was going to go to bed. 

I... this is fucking hard to describe, I'm trying my best. I was thinking about how betrayed I felt, how much I wanted this school and everyone in it to pay somehow for what they did to me. And as I was doing that, I was flicking the lighter. I was facing the trees just off school property, and I got so angry that I dropped the cigarette, just as it lit.

And just like the fucking Bible, the bush burst into flames. Like a giant pyrotechnic sparkly God, telling me "fuck you, Victoria." I swear it was like a bonfire.

I stepped back, stepped into the area I knew the cameras covered, because it was just too hot. The flames rose higher and higher - but then they died. I probably stood there for a half hour, until it died down. But I know for a fact people smoke by those bushes _constantly_ and they do not fucking burst into flame.

I thought about Kate Marsh in that moment. She's okay, supposedly. Off with her religious zealot family, "recovering" from that viral video. Until last night, I didn't understand Kate - I understood a little, but not really. When those reporters played that recording, I thought I understood a bit more. But when I saw that burning bush, I think I _really_ understood Kate Marsh. I understood what it means to believe.

There is a God, and He is not on my side. He does not forgive me for my sins, but I am going to make sure that He doesn't forgive anyone else's either. A burning bush told me.


	4. [EPISODE 1] Brooke Scott's text file entitled "definitelynotasecretdiaryoranything.ini" dated Monday, January 13, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brooke recounts strange personality changes from Victoria, and perhaps a budding friendship - but wonders about Victoria's true motivation. Meanwhile, litigation related to the events of the past year hangs a shadow over Blackwell and Arcadia Bay.

Girls only want me for my drone. That's what it comes down to. I think. I dunno. I'm not sure. I mean, girls definitely want my drone. "Hey Brooke, I need to use your drone!" It's literally what half the girls in this school - such as it is - who talk to me ever say. (Guys sometimes hit on me. But I mean, it's not like "Hey Brooke, I need to use your drone!" isn't a double entendre either. I dunno.) Anyway, the point is I never expected to hear Victoria say "hey Brooke, I need to use your drone." But she did, yesterday, when she knocked extremely... vigorously... on my door at 7 AM. Jesus, lady!

Anyway, given that I've already had the cops look through my email like they're Max fucking Caulfield or something, I'm not going to take any risks in case my laptop gets subpoenaed again. I'm putting this log of my interactions related to Victoria and... what we discussed using my drone for... in my Steam folder, inside the Half-Life 2 Episode 2 folder, next to some game assets. No cop will ever think Half-Life 2 is coming out, so it should avoid detection. I know, I should probably encrypt it with my public key or something, but... anyway. So. The reason Victoria wanted my drone. Let's back up a little bit, shall we? To, like, why the cops are looking through my email. It's related to those creepy but also kind of badass surveillance cameras around campus, and, also... you know, what happened last year. What happened because nobody was watching where they should have been. Not even me.

So. The thing that no one is saying, but everyone knows, is that Blackwell is doomed. Not doomed like "oh, it's going to vanish in some sort of horrible natural disaster that will just swallow it up" doomed, but doomed as in legally and financially. Turns out, letting a serial killer who was driven out of the art world for being creepy as shit isn't actually a good decision for a non-profit magnet school and does, in fact, have consequences. So since the moment Chloe Price got shot in that bathroom, every one of us has been under a giant, creepy, legal microscope that puts anything me and my drone can do to shame. (Or does it? I guess we're going to find out, if this thing with Victoria is really going to happen.)

It started out with the actual cops, like I said. I wasn't super-involved with any of it, but I knew Mr. Jefferson. Not a lot, but I was in one of his classes, and I thought he was cool. I mean, he liked seeing things, I guess, like I do. Liked to go places he wasn't supposed to be. I just never understood how far any of it went. But the point was, he'd sent me a couple of emails related to class, I'd sent him some, and at that point - it was just a couple of days after the shooting - I think they were just trying to make sure there wasn't another person working with Jefferson besides Nathan, that someone else - maybe me - wasn't going to get targeted next. So, I don't like cops, but I didn't complain too much when they took my laptop for a couple of days. Some people, like Max, had it way worse - I think she still didn't get her camera back. (How would you hide shit in a Polaroid camera? The whole point is there's one copy of the photo, and that's it.) But I got my laptop back, ran a spyware check to make sure none of them installed an AOL toolbar or something while they were checking it for serial killer evidence, and figured my involvement was over with. No such luck.

Jefferson's case is about as open and shut as you can get when you're charging a guy with killing two girls who he didn't actually kill himself. Turns out it's a felony to drug and kidnap and photograph girls, and since Rachel Amber died while he was doing that to her, he's on the hook for murder. I'm sure her dad being the former district attorney doesn't hurt, although obviously he wouldn't be able to prosecute the case himself even if he still had the job. He might not actually go to prison for life, but they're going to get him for a good long time. But then there was the question of that asshole, Nathan Prescott. He actually killed both girls who died, but over the next couple of weeks, there were hearings, and... I'm sure his parents were involved in this... it was decided that his "mental health concerns" had allowed Jefferson to take advantage of him, and he's getting a deferred sentence. I mean, his life's fucked regardless, everyone knows what he did, but I'm not sure I feel okay with just... letting him off. I know Madsen didn't - he took like three days off work, which he never does because spying on us is like breathing for him - but he was so fucking mad. Heh. Mad-sen. Max stopped making terrible puns like that, and I don't blame her, but I guess somebody has to pick up the slack. Anyway, that's the most I had to deal with the cops. It was worse for Victoria, and of course Max, and poor Kate Marsh. (That's all we ever call her, isn't it? Got a viral video leaked the same day as a school shooting, and she's a victim forever, I guess. Which, I mean, I'm sure she feels bad, wherever her family has her at now. But I mean, is that how she WANTS us to see her?)

But it turns out there's lawyers to go with cops. Everyone knew that the Prescotts basically bankroll Blackwell Academy, and Jefferson's creepy-ass photography dungeon was on their property, and their son actually killed two girls, and they're rich. Lawsuit! Except, from what I hear they basically preemptively paid something like a million and a half dollars each to the Price and Amber families. They offered the same to the Marshes, even though their daughter was alive, but they said absolutely not. And a few other parents - mostly the ones who don't live in Arcadia Bay and don't know the kind of power the Prescotts have - joined in with the suit. And, well, that includes my parents. So by December I was recording deposition after deposition, repeating the mostly really boring stuff I know about the guy who turned out to be a serial killer. I think Kate's been deposed close to a dozen times by now, because she's the last of Jefferson's victims in Arcadia who's actually alive. Like I said, poor Kate Marsh.

So, the point of all of this is, there are some fucking secrets in this place. It makes sense that the Prescotts would settle, and honestly, that Chloe and Rachel's parents would take the settlement money. But they JUMPED to offer it. They didn't wait AT ALL. And that's where things start to get suspicious. It occurred to me that it had been a little fast. I remembered when they offered a settlement to the class suit my parents signed onto that would have given us half a million dollars, and not only am I not dead, I was barely involved at all. Someone wanted to keep things quiet, more things than just the serial killer photography teacher and his evil prep apprentice. Which, when you put it that way, is pretty intense, but I was so exhausted by it all that I wanted to ignore it. I wouldn't have looked into it on my own.

Which brings me back to how girls want me for my drone. Victoria pounded on my door, demanding I let her in immediately. Before all of this started going down, before we knew about what happened, I'm not sure I would have opened the door at ALL for Victoria, much less leapt to my feet from having just been asleep and opened it immediately. I still don't know why I did that, or almost any of what happened next.

"Brooke, I need to use your drone," she told me. Normally, I'd respond with something snarky - I don't even normally let people I like, like Max, or Warren, use my drone. 

Instead, I said, "sure. But what for?"

"You just have to trust me on this, Brooke," she said. I wasn't going to completely give in that easily, so I pushed her on it. Pretty soon, we were sitting next to each other on my bed - something I had NEVER expected to happen with Victoria, ever.

"What is this about?" I asked her again, even though somehow it felt like it was wrong to ask, like I didn't deserve the information. Maybe because I knew Victoria had had to testify a ton too, because I knew she'd been Jefferson's next target - I dunno.

"Okay, fine, I'll tell you," Victoria said. "Listen, there's stuff about Jefferson I - Brooke, you can't tell anyone about this." I was certain that I would not, and I very much wanted to know - and to help her, with whatever it was she needed. I'm not sure why. I agreed I'd keep quiet (which is why this text file is buried in the Half-Life 2 Episode 2 graphical assets folder, like I said). 

"Brooke, I -" Victoria's voice seemed to crack. Whatever she was telling me was difficult for her. "Brooke, I sort of... had a crush on Mark Jefferson. Or I acted like I did. I wanted to win that stupid photography contest, the one that he was going to make sure I won anyway... and I was going to..."

I didn't feel tact was necessary. "Offer favors."

"Yes," Victoria said. She was nearly crying now. "And I didn't think I needed to say anything because the only people I told were Taylor and Courtney, but..." Victoria paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "Brooke, a reporter came up to me with a recording on her phone, and it was me saying I was going to offer to sleep with Mr. Jefferson so I could win the Everyday Heroes contest. The only people who could have recorded me were Brooke and Courtney, and now..."

"You perjured yourself." I stated it simply.

"Maybe," Victoria said. "I definitely tried not to mention it. I don't know if this means anyone can prove I was lying, but it doesn't make me look good, and that's not even what bothers me!"

"Possibly going to jail for perjury isn't what bothers you, Victoria?"

"No! The fact that people I thought were my friends recorded me is!"

"Wow, Victoria," I said. "I feel like your priorities are off." She glared at me, and I immediately felt ashamed. "But look, I get why you wouldn't want to tell anyone. I get why you'd be pissed. But..."

"You're wondering why they would record me," Victoria said, and I nodded. 

"It doesn't make any sense," I told her. "This was before any of the stuff about what Jefferson was really doing came out, right?"

"Yeah," she said. She was actually crying now. I wasn't sure if I should try to hug her or not, and some part of me really wanted to, but I decided it wasn't really a good idea at this time. Yeah. Anyway. "It doesn't make any fucking sense, Brooke," she said. "I was being a skank! Fine! Taylor and Courtney are skanky bitches too, and they've told me way worse things about who they wanted to fuck, and I never recorded it." She paused. "I mean... worse... as long as they didn't know."

Realization dawned on me. "You think Taylor and Courtney knew something about Mr. Jefferson."

"I think they might have been helping him. Maybe they still are."

Part of me wanted to believe this, and part of me was skeptical. "I dunno, Victoria," I said. "I get that you're made, but maybe they were just... you know, like you said. Being bitches about things."

"That's why I want to use your drone," Victoria said through tears. As always, it was about my drone. I stopped feeling like I should hug her. "I want to see what's going on in their rooms."

"Okay, Victoria, you get my drone doesn't have, like, wiretapping powers or anything, right?" I asked. "I can look in their window with it, sure. If they don't notice. But you know, Warren Graham is a kind of biological robot who looks in girls' windows without asking too, why don't you ask him?"

"Come on, Brooke," Victoria said. "Just do me a solid. I know we haven't been friends before but... I need to know. I NEED TO." 

How could I say no? Well, in retrospect, quite easily, but I didn't.

"So what do you want me to find, exactly?" I asked, opening my closet to extract the drone and begin linking it to my tablet. "Just peer in their windows?"

"Well - that's the thing," Victoria said. She handed me a sheet of paper. "Courtney didn't lock her door, and I stole this." It was a printed schedule, decorated with drawings of high heels and flowers. Courtney is such a fucking boring person, but whatever. I wasn't particularly surprised that Victoria had been able to pull this off - Courtney Wagner would do, basically, anything that Victoria Chase asked her to - but it did call into significant question what good my drone could do. "Look at the schedule for today," Victoria continued.

"Sunday ballet recital - 11 AM," I read. "So you know when she won't be in the room."

"More importantly, I know when she WILL be in the room, Brooke," Victoria said. "Your drone has sound capabilites. That's not a question, I Googled it. I want to record whatever she's saying."

"Okay, Victoria," I said, turning to face her with the drone in hand. "What are you expecting is going to happen? You got me up at 7 fucking in the morning because Courtney won't be up yet, and we'll send the drone over and she'll wake up at 8:30 or whatever and say, 'oh, time for my ballet recital! Also, time to make sure Victoria doesn't know I'm working with the fucking Blackwell Photography Killer, because I totally am?'" I paused. "Sorry. Wow, that was bitchy." Victoria glared at me, but then almost smiled.

"That was kind of impressive, actually," she said. "I mean, it would be nice if she did that, but I just want to see how long we can watch her in the room. Since I already know I can get in, I'm less interested about what's in there and more in what she's doing."

"Okay. I guess... that makes sense," I said. "It's a start, anyway. But what if it's not Courtney who recorded you? What if it's just Taylor?"

"That's the point," Victoria said. "I need to know who I can trust. I need to rule people out. Find out if it's both of them, or just one."

"You know..." a thought crossed my mind. "Victoria, you know there's another possibility? What if nobody betrayed you? What if there was, like, a drone there, that made the recording?"

"Drones make noise," Victoria pointed out. "We were IN our dorm room. I know there wasn't a drone flying around in there. But... we could have been bugged."

"Madsen?" I suggested.

"Maybe," Victoria said. "He's a fucking asshole, but I don't know why he'd leak something on me to the press, though."

"True," I said. "All right, Courtney will be up soon if this schedule is right, so -" I flung my window open and turned the drone on. It hovered in the air in front of us. I gestured to Victoria. "You want to see what the drone sees, right? Come look at the tablet." Victoria came over and watched as I piloted the drone out the window.

"Courtney's room is -"

"End of the tower, 225," I said. "I know who lives in my dorm, Victoria." I felt weird around her - weird because half of me wanted to treat her with the contempt I'd always felt, and because the other half, maybe more than half, really, REALLY wanted to help her. I decided to ignore this feeling and just use my fucking flying robot to spy on people.

I swung the drone around the corner from mine and Victoria's rooms and continued down the hall to the room at the top of the tower - "Prescott Tower," they called it, to go with "Prescott Dormitory," except these days no one liked to call it that. Just "the dorms" now. Which I would always have preferred.

I pulled the drone up to Taylor's window, but not too close - I positioned it just to the right and above, so she'd have to actively look outside to see us. She was up, and I immediately felt like a creep. A big creep, given the context of recent events at Blackwell, because Courtney was in her underwear. It quickly became apparent that she was searching frantically for something. "The schedule?" I speculated aloud.

"That's what I want to know," Victoria said. "If it's just the schedule, then she's just overreacting, like she does. But what if there's something ELSE in there." I nodded - Victoria's plan was starting to make sense. At least some sense. Victoria did know Courtney really well, after all.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck," Courtney was saying. She approached, and I moved the drone just a BIT higher, in case she looked up. She did not, though - instead, with a sweeping motion of her hand, she knocked the contents of her desk onto the floor. A vase of flowers shattered.

"Where did you find this?" I asked Victoria, gesturing at the schedule.

"It was right there, on the desk," Victoria said. 

"Which means if she knew it was there and keeps looking then there's probably something else she's worried someone would find. This wasn't about the schedule, it was about making her worry something was out of place." I was impressed. That was the sort of thing Warren would do, or Max - definitely Max - but I hadn't thought Victoria would.

Courtney seemed unsatisfied by sorting through the pile of what she had just knocked off her desk, and continued swearing. She began opening drawers in her desk - and then she stopped. She took something out, and a chill ran down my spine.

I hadn't been able to resist following the Jefferson trial, and I had read a piece from just a few weeks ago about the evidence being laid against him. One of the key elements, which his attorneys was trying to suppress, was a phone he allegedly have given to Nathan Prescott, which Nathan had used to find out which girls were being targeted and to procure drugs. Some messages had been deleted from the phone. The online article had had a photo of the prosecutor gesturing with the phone in an evidence bag.

This was the same model phone that Courtney was now holding. It was a bottom-barrel Android smartphone. Exactly the kind of thing you'd use as a burner in this era where the classic Matrix Nokia flip phone is no longer available. This was the same brand, same color, as Nathan Prescott. What would a rich kid like Courtney be doing with that phone? I knew I'd seen her around campus with the latest model of iPhone.

I looked at Victoria. "Shh," she said, and I immediately was silent. We watched on the screen through the window as Courtney flipped the phone open and began texting. She stepped away from the window, and I moved the drone to keep her in view.

"Come on, come on," she said, pacing - I knew there was a risk she would look over and see "us," but now I had to know. I had to see. After a little under a minute of pacing - I know how long it was because the drone showed the time - she apparently grew frustrated with the lack of response, and began doing something else with the phone. She raised it to her ear, and I could distantly hear the sound of a ringtone. Someone picked up.

"Hello, yes, this is Courtney Wagner," she said. A voice - it sound like a guy - said something indistinct on the other end. Suddenly, I wished my drone DID have wiretapping capabilities. "No, I need to talk to one of the attorneys, now. My room's been searched."

I glanced at Victoria, but she was transfixed by the screen. She was right - we had stumbled onto something. Something big.

I heard loud knocking on the door next to mine - Victoria's door.

"Shit, who is that?" Victoria said, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Victoria, open up! It's important!" It was Taylor's voice.

I looked back at the screen, and jumped. Courtney was still speaking on the phone, and walking toward the window. For a moment, I saw her eyes flicker up, and a look of surprise.

I pulled the drone up and away, but something told me that it was too late. "Victoria, are you in there?" Taylor yelled. I heard a door open from two places - distantly, on my tablet, from the drone's sound feed, and more immediately, at the end of the hall. Courtney was coming.

"I saw that fucking nerd bitch's drone," Courtney said. "She's fucking spying on us. Forget Victoria, we're taking her down."

SHIT. My door wasn't locked. I lowered the drone quickly into the bushes and turned off the power - would have to get that when I could. I reached my door just as the knob turned from the outside. Victoria pushed me out of the way. "Let me handle this," she said.

Courtney and Taylor were standing, looks of mixed fear and rage on their faces.

"Victoria! You knew about this?" Taylor said.

"I don't know what you're talking about, and you're going to leave. Now." Victoria's face was filled with a resolve I didn't think I'd ever seen before, and something else seemed to change in their faces.

"You... Brooke has been spying on us," Courtney said.

"I fucking have not!" I fucked lied.

"LET ME HANDLE THIS!" Victoria said. "Courtney, Taylor, we're going to talk about this in Taylor's room. Brooke, you said you had to go do homework with Warren, right? OUT IN THE YARD?" It wasn't subtle, but I immediately got what she was saying. What I didn't understand was how Courtney and Taylor were agreeing to it. Victoria was going to go to the room we hadn't seen yet, and try to search ti, and she wanted me to document it with the drone.

They turned and left my room, and I paused for a moment, grabbed my tablet, and began hurriedly running downstairs. 

And that was when things went even more pear-shaped. On the stairway, I met a face I very much did not want to see: David Madsen.

"Miss Scott," he said, taking my drone out from behind him. "I think this belongs to you?"


	5. Encrypted Digital Log by David Madsen, dated January 13, 2014 (printed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David, estranged from Joyce and unable to process the loss of Chloe, throws himself into his job at Blackwell - but neither the law nor Principal Wells support some of his actions, such as investigating the Prescott and Amber families. When he notices that Victoria and Brooke are investigating a similar lead as him, he tries to gain their cooperation, with typical David Madsen deftness.

Blackwell Academy, 6:30 A.M. patrol, January 13: nothing on monitors, students secure in dormitory. Going to walk the perimeter.

Blackwell Academy, 7:00 A.M. patrol, January 13: found a burned bush on outskirts of grounds, outside camera radius. Students have been smoking - tobacco, and marijuana. Hope that's the only two. Will need to readjust camera targeting. I knew these kids couldn't be trusted - but neither can that groundskeeper creep, and his tool shed is right here. No sign of a gasoline fire, so no idea how the blaze got this bad. Going to talk to Wells.

Blackwell Academy, 8:00 A.M., January 13: talked to Wells. That idiot can't see what's right in front of him. He understands the students can't be trusted, especially not with the kind of person we now know is running around - but he's who hired that kind of person, and he still hasn't acknowledged that! When I mentioned the burned bush to him, he got upset. Not visibly at first, but it reminded me of when - when Chloe used to lie to me about where she was going.

"David," he said, "I understand what you must be going through. The loss of a child, even an adopted one, is -"

I didn't listen to the rest, he's lucky I didn't punch him right then and there. He doesn't want me looking into this burned bush. He's trying to spin it like he's in favor of going easier on students smoking, as if he wasn't the one who wanted anyone caught with pot expelled. I mean, I wanted that too. Mostly. But that's not the point, and he knows it. I showed him a photo I took with my phone - that juniper bush was gone, it was like it was napalmed.

"To be honest, Ray, it reminds me of what a HUM-V hit with an IED looks like," I told him. He said something about how much he appreciated my service and hurried me out of the office. I have to get to the bottom of this. Ray knows as well as I do that this isn't about kids smoking. No cigarette or doobie is going to do what I saw there. Hell, there were dozens of burnt-out butts under the bush. People had dropped them on it plenty of times, and this never happened.

Principal Wells doesn't like fire. I don't blame him, but I do remember when this happened before. 2010. The wildfires. When I moved in with Joyce. I didn't know the extent of it then, I didn't see what was going on - I know we get them around here, it was big, it was unusual, but it happens. That's what I told myself. I didn't work here then but I remember meeting with Wells right there in his office, the day Chloe got suspended for skipping school and then tagged the whole girls' bathroom with graffiti. (I have to admit that was pretty impressive.) Something was bothering Wells, something beyond Chloe and Rachel skipping.

Ever since I got the Blackwell job, I've kept an eye on him. His computer's not hard to get into, and something I noticed was that he keeps a _close_ eye on natural disasters, and I mean close. _Especially_ wildfires, but also tornados, hurricanes, earthquakes. He has a schedule predicting when the wildfire season is worst in Oregon printed inside his drawer. Principal Wells is worried about fire more than any reasonable individual should be, and I have very broad definitions for a reasonable individual.

Of course, that's not the only thing on Wells' computer. I remember the day Chloe died. I remember it vividly. There are two things I remember knowing with certainty: that someone else like me was out there and we had both failed; and that Raymond Wells is a liar who knows why my stepdaughter is dead.

The text message told me everything - everything that would come out over the next several days. I was skeptical for maybe an hour - and that ended when the call came. Just like the text said, Nathan Prescott was involved. But I had never imagined it could get this bad. That it would hit me like this.

But a teacher at the school that employs me had been complicit - they had hired Mark Jefferson, and they had allowed him to abuse and torture students. I knew that sick bastard wasn't acting alone, and I was _certai_ _n_ after I found, on Principal Wells' computer, documents indicating he was taking bribes to keep Nathan's abysmal record of behavior off the books, and a copy of a drawing. I printed it. I have it.

I don't like to look at it. "Rachel in the Dark Room." I knew what it meant the instant I saw it, and when they dug her body up I knew I was the only one who could crack this case.

Principal Wells is afraid of fire. He's afraid of storms. And he's covering for the Prescott Foundation, which is prepared to weather either. I am going to bring them all down and make them pay for Chloe. But to do that, I need to find out who started this fire. I have an idea of where to start, with some no-good piece of shits who preached about integrity until they let their daughter die. I'm going to go see the Ambers again. They told me to stay away, so did Wells - but my daughter was in the place she died putting up missing person signs for _their_ daughter, who they just let lie in a shallow grave for six months. I don't care what they want. They're going to tell me what they know - and I know they know something.

Blackwell Academy, 11:30 A.M.: haven't been able to leave the school yet. Had hoped to use long lunch to talk to Ambers, but something has come up. Students were using drones against regulations in outside the girls' dormitory. Not taking them to Wells. Can't trust him. Going to have to... try... to cooperate. You can do this, David.

UPDATE: Victoria Price and Brooke Scott are the ringleaders. They were attempting to spy on Courtney Wagner and Taylor Christenson. No other students appear to be involved. Either of these students could be aware of the events of last night's fire, and both are clearly involved in this investigation. I don't want to involve them. No, I can't. I can't involve students. Not after what happened to Chloe.

"Listen, it was just a stupid game," Brooke said, lying through her teeth. "We were trying to embarass Courtney by seeing if we could get her diary -"

"Stop lying to me, Brooke," I told her. How could I ask the questions I needed to ask without encouraging them to continue down this dangerous path? I couldn't. But if I let them go, I _knew_ they'd keep following it. I took a deep breath. "Listen, Victoria, Brooke: what you did back there, it was a good strategy. I think I was able to get your drone before they knew about it. And I can help you find out what you need to know. I know this isn't some teenage catfight."

They paused. I hadn't expected to be as upfront as that either. Victoria was the first to speak.

"Mr. Madsen, I was at a hearing testifying for the lawsuit -" I hated to be reminded of that, how Joyce talked me in to just taking those Prescott bastards' money instead of fighting them like Brooke's parents, and Kate's parents - "and this _woman_ came up to me and played a recording. Like, blackmail. I said... some things in it... about... Mr. Jefferson."

"When was this recording made? Who made it?"

"It was from before... we knew any of it. Mr. Madsen, I, uh, I guess the recording was of me telling Courtney and Taylor that I... had... a crush on him, and... joking... that I might... do something about that. To win the Everyday Heroes contest."

 _Of course she would have said that_ , I thought. I simply nodded. "Go on."

"So, I know only Taylor and Courtney could have heard it, so one of them recorded it. I asked Brooke for help - this was totally my idea, by the way -"

"I don't care. Go on."

Brooke continued. "So we stole something from inside her dorm, then used the drone to see inside her room, and we saw she was using some kind of burner cell phone to talk to... someone about it. She was panicked someone had been in there."

 _A good strategy_ , I thought. _Something I would do._

"It's likely the Prescotts," I said. "Listen to me: no one can find out about this. I am investigating this issue, and I _highly_ recommend that you stop doing so immediately."

"Yes, sir," Victoria said. I knew she was lying, but there was nothing I could do. "We will, sir." There was a pause. "Can we... go?"

"There is one more thing," I said. "Would either of you happen to know about a burned bush by the groundskeeper's office? It seems to have caught fire overnight, and the fire didn't look right. Like someone dumped gasoline on it, but there was no smell of it. You know of anyone starting any fires?"

"No," Victoria lied.

"No," Brooke said.

I maintained a long eye contact with Victoria, then gestured at her. "Stay out of trouble." The girls left, and I wrote this report. Too late to see the Ambers today. Not sure I need to.

Firestorms. And Wells is worried about hurricanes and tornados. This is connected, somehow. I got a postcard in the mail about two weeks ago, from no address at all, with typewritten letters. All it said was, "the storm is still coming," and it had a little doodle of a tornado.

When Chloe... when we had to... identify her at the morgue... they gave us her personal effects. Joyce couldn't bring herself to go through them - she can't bring herself to do much of anything these days - so I did. Lighter, that weird keychain... but I'd forgotten something. I'd forgotten that I'd given her the photo of me and Phil, from just before... just before that happened. I keep it with me now, because it helps me remember both of them.

I took it out, and I looked at it. It wasn't like I remember it was, wasn't like when I tried to go back and fix things with my dad. As I looked at the photo, I saw and heard what was around it - but not the way I could before. I remembered what I used this photo for, and it hits me like it always does, like a ton of bricks: what if it was giving Chloe this photo that drew her into all of this?

There was nothing but sand, and me and Phil, safe in an abandoned enemy ATV. The storm had blocked reinforcements for almost two weeks, and we were the last members of the unit left. Before we didn't hit the IED, I barely knew Phil... but now, he was the only person I had in the world.

"I know you'll never forget me," he said.

"We're going to get back home!" I said.

"Listen!" he told me. "Even if we do - the Lieutenant, James, Millerson, they're all gone."

"And it is _not_ your fault!" I told him. "Phil, I cannot lose you."

He handed me the photo. I knew the time exactly. 32 minutes before the IUD we didn't hit. "Yes, David. You can."

I never knew if I made the right choice. To go through, to become that other me, to not let Phil know what we had gone through...

To be silent, until the blast.

Every day, now, I look at this photo, I want to go back and change _everything_ , warn myself to find Chloe, to destroy Jefferson, and to save Phil... but I can't. I can't do it anymore.

And I think that means someone can. And this time the price comes not in sand, but in fire.


End file.
